


Edge of Seventeen

by accol



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Happy Derek, M/M, Messy, Painting, Singing, age as an issue, friendship to more
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-11 19:59:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/accol/pseuds/accol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Derek was humming. As in, a song was being played through the headphones and Derek was happily mumbling lyrics and painting like it was hot guy karaoke night.</em>
</p><p>Stiles helps Derek put the finishing touches on his renovated house.  And then feelings happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Edge of Seventeen

**Author's Note:**

> With all respect to Stevie Nicks.

“What the hell is--?” Stiles squinted and tilted his head to listen. “No way.”

With one hand under his paint roller in case it dripped, he poked his head around the corner into the adjacent room. Derek already yelled at him once about the paint and the floor and how never the twain shall meet unless Stiles wanted to clean it up with his tongue. First, no thank you, Disgruntled Homeowner Derek Hale. And second, that shiznit echoes in an empty house. Stiles was into protecting his ears as much as he was curious what definitely-was-but-could-not-possibly- _be_ happening.

Derek had his own roller and was meticulously putting snow white paint on the wall of his new bedroom. He had appropriated Stiles’ gaming headphones from downstairs.

(Obviously the first room kinda-sorta finished was the living room, complete with upside down drywall compound pails for chairs and _Halo_ projected on the pristine plaster. Stiles found it endlessly amusing that Derek refused to call it the _den_.

_“Not everything has to be a wolf pun, Stiles. I don’t go around saying ‘oh the humanity’ every time you do something. Even if it would be apt.”_

_“I so dare you to do that. Bug me. Bug the hell out of me. Gimme your best shot.”_

_“Stiles.”_

_“Are there like Sven-and-Ole jokes but werewolf-and-human jokes? There’s gotta be some. Derek, come on. Give up the goods.”_ )

Derek hadn’t bothered to flip up the microphone on the headphones so he looked like the world’s most drool-worthy air traffic controller. It was a good look. Most of Derek’s looks were good looks in Stiles’ perpetually unspoken opinion. He expressed opinions on anything and everything but _this_. It also helped that Derek was in his work jeans. The ones with the tear under the back pocket where Stiles would like to put his tongue, paint or no paint. There was a slot and a tab. Commence insertion.

All of that amazingness aside, there was more to be had. Truly, this might be better than the time Stiles found the nudie magazines shoved under Derek's mattress when they were moving his stuff out of the loft into storage. And that had been an insight and a half because hello naked women _and_ naked dudes. Stiles never ended up telling Scott... or anyone else. His face got hot thinking about it, so he kept it to himself.

Right here, right now, much to Stiles’ gape-mouthed surprise, Derek was humming. As in, a song was being played through the headphones and Derek was happily mumbling lyrics and painting like it was hot guy karaoke night. Stiles, as inconspicuously as he knew how, rolled his shoulder along the wall back out into the hallway.

Holy crap. He had just witnessed the impossible. It was a miracle. Call the Vatican. Call the Ghostbusters. Call Melissa to revive him with those paddle thingies because _wow_. Derek was happy enough to be _singing_.

Derek chose that moment to hit a high note. For the sake of Stiles’ paint roller (and consequently Derek's floor... and consequently Stiles' tongue), it was a good thing Stiles didn’t have werewolf strength. Otherwise the roller would have been rendered as useless as Stiles’ brain.

The uncontrollably joyous snort he let out was the opposite of quiet. Stiles slapped a paint splattered hand over his mouth. Underneath it, he smiled so broadly that the top half of his head was going to Humpty Dumpty onto the floor.

“I can hear you out there dripping paint on my new floor.”

Stiles’ howl of laughter burst out of him. He stumbled back into Derek’s room. “But,” he gasped, doubling over with the hilarity of Derek Hale singing along to Stevie Nicks of all possible people. “Wait. I can’t… You… oh God, this is--”

“At least get on the drop cloth, for fuck’s sake.” Derek manhandled Stiles into the center of the room amid the paint cans. The muscle in his jaw worked while Stiles kept guffawing. “Stop laughing.”

“Hoo! Are you blushing? This gets better and better,” Stiles laughed. Tears were forming at the corners of his eyes. “Singing!” He poked at Derek’s cheek to make sure he was real and not some fantasy projection from Stiles' admittedly creative id.  (A crush this intense was bound to have side-effects.)  He accidentally left behind a white streak across Derek's cheekbone. This sent him into more hysterics, because now Derek looked distinctly Adam Ant-ish.

“Everyone sings along to classic rock,” Derek said in his defense, crossing his arms. His roller was threatening to drip down the ass of his wrecked jeans.

“Yes, but that was _Edge of Seventeen_ , Derek.” Stiles abruptly stopped laughing and just about choked on his own tongue. “ _Oh_.” He wiped away a stray tear from his cheek and stared in stunned silence at Derek’s stupidly attractive, possibly reciprocally interested face.

Derek shifted uncomfortably under Stiles’ gaze. He pulled off the headphones, wrapped the cord around his iPod, and put them on the top of the stepladder.

“It’s a song, Stiles,” Derek mumbled.

“No. No way. No take backs,” he hiccuped. “This sounds a lot like you holding up a boombox and playing a song outside someone’s window.”

That muscle worked again in Derek’s jaw, but his eyes looked like they were pleading for mercy.

God, maybe there was no romantic boombox here. Shit fuck ouch. Bad Stiles for word-vomiting his own hang-ups onto Derek who was now probably looking for a way to tell Stiles his feelings were cute, but no thanks. They could have just gone merrily along with Stiles occasionally rubbing out a Derek-tinged orgasm in private, but no.   Stiles had to go there.  He had to _say_ _something_ about John Cusack rom coms.  He cringed at himself.

“Or I am reading this completely wrong and it’s just a song. Because obviously. Sometimes people just like songs.” But he couldn’t stop.  The floodgates had been opened when Derek sang along with a freaking song and Stiles' fell that last little bit in--  “Fuck, if I’m reading this wrong, you should go right ahead and pretend I’m not talking.”

Derek stared. If his eyebrows pulled together any tighter, they'd become one. “I would never hold up a boombox. Who even has boomboxes anymore?”

“No, yeah. Now there are iPods and you singing along to them about seventeen-ness.”

Derek flushed and looked away. “Whatever. Just pretend... Forget it.” He turned back to painting the wall.

Cold dampness oozed through the top of Stiles' shoe. At least it wasn't on the floor. Because really, watching Derek fix this house up to give the pack a place... Happiness kept threatening to actually take root for once. Stiles could be selfish for a second and say he was happier than he'd been in a decade too. It wasn't just Dad anymore; Stiles had their pack too.

Maybe he needed to hold up that boombox himself.  What the hell.  Why not at this point?  It was just _everything_.

“Oh no. You don’t get out that easily. Back here, Sourwolf.” Stiles grabbed Derek’s back pocket and tugged. It ripped off in his hand.

Stiles snorted again, unable to help himself. Derek turned to look over his shoulder and down toward his ass. Then he glared. Stiles shrugged with the handful of denim. Halfway to hysteria and emotions bubbling up to his eyeballs, he probably looked ridiculous and desperate. When it came to their alpha, Stiles usually was on the verge of ridiculousness and desperation.

Momentary shock melted off of Derek’s face, replaced by a creeping smile at the corner of his mouth. “You are going to pay for that.”

“I am?” Stiles waggled the pocket like a little flag taunting Derek like a bull. He should totally charge and pin Stiles down and make him pay in specific ways. Preferably with sexual favors.

“Yes, you are.” Derek said, stalking back onto the drop cloth. He promptly rolled white paint from Stiles’ belt to his chin.

For a breathless, confusing moment, Stiles barely registered what had happened. In his own defense it was because Derek blinded him with a genuinely happy-looking grin. “You didn’t,” Stiles sputtered.

The smile got wider as Derek looked him up and down. “I did.” Smug motherfucker.

“Game on.” Stiles swung his roller, flinging paint droplets in a line down Derek’s front.

“For the millionth time, I said: _Watch the floor_.” Derek ditched his roller and picked up Stiles in a single motion, slinging him over his shoulder. Then, _smack_.

“Fuck,” Stiles grunted. He’d died and gone to a heaven where all of his porno fantasies had come to life. “Did you just _spank_ me?”

“Seventeen is still a kid.” Being on top of a muscular shoulder while it shrugged in victory was weirdly erotic.

“You old _pervert_.” Stiles wiggled and wondered if they’d both inhaled too many paint fumes because _how was this even happening_. He reached down and rolled some paint across the swell of Derek’s torn jeans. “Bring it.”

Derek flung Stiles down, catching him before he collided with the floor. One massive paw of a hand was cradling the back of his head as he knelt over him. Too many calming breaths happened before Derek said, “That’s the problem.”

“That you’re old or that you’re a pervert? Because…” Stiles let the words come out of his mouth. “Neither of those things are a problem from my perspective.”

He squirmed against the drop cloth. It would be super awesome if Derek could be crystal clear about what this was. Pack bonding or temporary insanity or witchcraft or _what_. Considering all of the blood from Stiles’ brain had gone south for the winter, he needed clarity.

Derek dragged a thumb up the column of Stiles’ neck, smearing paint against his skin. Given the invitation, Stiles readily abandoned his roller and reached up to do the same. Stubble dragged under the pads of his fingers, tracing the curve of Derek’s adam’s apple.

Wow. This was a lot. More than a lot. Derek was letting him...

Stiles blurted, “Plus it’s more like _Edge of Eighteen_. If we’re counting.” Totally reasonable.

Derek laughed another real laugh. It was gorgeous and so rare. His throat vibrated under Stiles’ touch. “You always think you have the answers.” He cupped Stiles’ jaw.

“Not really. More like... I’m not afraid of uncharted territory. Or, curiosity outweighs the fear. Figure it out as I go.” He curled a finger through one of Derek’s belt loops and wanted to pull. Hopefully Derek's jeans would just spontaneously come apart at the seams.

“So what have you figured out about me?” His chin came up like a dare.

“Dude, for one, you never fail to surprise me.” Stiles’ voice caught on the words. Who could possibly endure Derek looking at them like this? He felt like he was in a frying pan.

“You look good when you blush,” Derek said quietly.

“Yeah, well. You look good when you laugh.”

Derek smiled when Stiles threw those words out like a comeback. “Not everything has to be a challenge.”

“Why not?” Stiles swallowed hard and dared to angle his hips up until they made contact with Derek’s ass.

His long, dark lashes were everything as his eyes fluttered shut. Stiles ran his thumb up over the white paint he’d left on Derek’s cheek.

“Why not,” Derek echoed, eyes opening to put Stiles back in the frying pan. “ _Because_ your dad still thinks I’m a criminal. Because you’re still in high school. Because the pack can’t lose you when I fuck everything up.”

It was Stiles’ turn to laugh again. “I don’t even have words for how much that challenge is accepted.”

“Stiles--”

“The only way you could fuck this up is by _not fucking this up_.” Stiles planted his feet and thrust hard like punctuation. “Hum all you want, as long as you _do_ something. Or let me do things. I have ideas.”

Derek buried his face against Stiles neck and laughed a little helplessly. “I bet. _Research_.” Derek’s air quotes were audible.

“So many ideas.” He slid his left hand down into Derek’s remaining back pocket and his right into the hole left behind by the other.

Hot air stuttered over Stiles’ skin. A brush of lips followed. Then a lowering of hips to pin Stiles to the floor. “I swear the song wasn’t on purpose. I didn’t even know that--”

Stiles laughed. “Come on, Romeo. I have ideas that need exploring,” he said, tugging to roll them... landing Derek right on top of Stiles’ paint roller.

“Stiles.”

“Roll with it?"

"Not ok."

"It's just a sign you should disrobe immediately. You never wear a shirt anyway. To be honest, I barely recognized you when I got here and you had it on.”

"Shut up."  Derek sat up, settling Stiles into his lap. A hand wet with paint disappeared under Stiles shirt and traced its sticky way up his chest. His mouth never left the side of Stiles’ throat. A lick and then a soft press of lips to his thundering pulse. “I’m rolling with it. Happy?”

“Like you don’t even know.” Seven thousand ideas whipped through Stiles’ mind, but all he could manage was rocking down a little with a groan. “Happy, happy, happy,” he chanted.

He wasn't sure he'd heard happy breathing before but that was the best way to describe Derek's mouth at the line of his shoulder. Derek pushed aside the collar of Stiles' shirt and pressed blunt teeth against his clavicle.

"Thirty-seven days," Derek panted.

Stiles settled lower into Derek's lap, enjoying the pressure of Derek's cock against his ass and wondering what the fuck Derek was talking about. It'd be awesome if Derek's brain was as broken by this as Stiles' was. He pushed his fingers through Derek's hair and spoke against his lips.

"Huh?" That was the best Stiles could manage.  He tried to manage a kiss, since he was right there. Seemed like a good time.  

"Until 18. Right?"

Stiles pulled back. "Awesome that you know that, but unless the next thing out of your old pervert mouth is ' _that means 37 days of blowjobs_ '..."

Derek helpfully said nothing. He did laugh though when he yanked Stiles’ jeans off by the ankles. And when paint squelched audibly between their palms when Stiles slid his fingers between Derek’s and dragged him in for a kiss. And when he left rings of white paint around Stiles’ ankles when he pushed them up by Stiles’ ears. There was less laughing after that. More like groaning. And slurping. (Stiles was partial to the slurping. Both as slurper and slurpee. He laughed again because _slurpee_  but Derek was too busy to ask for an explanation.) There was some humming too. Stevie Nicks would probably have been proud.

A week later when they finally moved the furniture in, the bed covered up the handprints on the floor. Stiles’ tongue was too busy with other things to get around to cleaning them up.


End file.
